What I Did with the Guard on the Empty Train

From that confinement I’m left with only a few images worth remembering. Most of them are gray: the dead street, the mask that left marks on my ears, the hand sanitizer that cracked my hands. I worked in food service and was one of the few who still had to go out, so my mornings started before the sun, when the whole city was still asleep behind its lowered shutters.

The only thing I looked forward to was the train. Empty, silent, all mine. I sat by the window in the first car and watched the deserted platforms go by as if they belonged to another world. There no one rushed me, no one coughed nearby, no one looked at me suspiciously. Just the rattling and me.

And there was Damián.

The first-shift guard. I’d known him by sight for weeks, during those days when I’d pass through asking for the damn circulation permit with a flashlight in my hand. The first time I barely registered him. The second I noticed he held my gaze a second too long. The third he winked at me, and I, without thinking, winked back. It was a stupid gesture, almost childish, but in the middle of so much silence it felt enormous.

And so the days went by. One morning, after checking my paper, he leaned in and said something in a low voice the train noise swallowed. I didn’t understand a thing. But instead of asking him to repeat it, I pulled my mask down a little and smiled at him with my whole mouth, that smile you save for very few things.

He got it.

Two stops later he came back. The car was completely empty; not a soul had gotten on the whole ride. He sat next to me, not across from me, and started talking to me about anything: the cold, the long shift, how strange it was to see the city like this. I barely listened. I looked at his hands, big, resting on his knees, and thought about things I shouldn’t have been thinking about at that hour of the morning. I thought about those hands parting my thighs, getting where no one had touched me in an eternity.

—You’re different today —he said, edging closer.

I was the same as always. What was different was me on the inside, soaked already, squeezing my thighs together so it wouldn’t show.

His hand went up slowly, first to my knee, then to my thigh, waiting at each step for me to stop him. I didn’t stop him. When he brushed me over my coat, I let my head fall back against the seat and closed my eyes. He went straight for it, without any more detours: he unbuttoned my pants, slipped his hand under my panties, and found me dripping. He gave a low grunt right against my ear while two of his fingers opened my cunt and started moving inside with a slowness that made me bite my lip so I wouldn’t scream. The train entered a curve, the wheels shrieked, and I took advantage of that noise to bring my hand to his crotch and squeeze over his pants. He was hard, really hard, pressing against the fabric.

—Take it out for me —I asked, hoarse, without opening my eyes—. I want to touch it.

We reached a station. We waited, both of us tense, his fingers still inside me, my hand still over his bulge, to see if anyone would get on. The platform was empty. The doors opened onto nothing and closed onto nothing.

Then he grabbed the back of my neck and kissed me. I yanked my mask down, he pulled his off, and we kissed like two people who hadn’t been touched in months. His tongue, my tongue, his hot breath mixing with mine, his fingers going in and out of my cunt faster and faster, his thumb searching for my clit and finding it swollen, throbbing. I lowered his zipper while he opened my coat and pushed up my T-shirt.

I took his cock out in one go, no ceremony. It wasn’t huge, but it was hard as a rock, thick, the head already shiny from being held back so long, and I liked that more than any size. I started jerking him slowly, gripping him tightly, feeling him pulse in my fist. He yanked my bra up, bared my tits to the cold air of the car, and lowered his head to suck on them. He licked one nipple, bit it, moved to the other, and I kept jerking him, faster, letting my saliva run down his shaft so it would slip better. A moan slipped out of me and bounced around the empty car.

—Shut up, you idiot —he breathed in my ear, laughing—, they’ll hear us.

—No one’s here —I panted, and squeezed the tip with my palm, rubbing it in circles.

His fingers went back to my cunt, now three of them, forcing their way in little by little, and I began rocking against his hand, riding his knuckles right there in the seat, tits out and head back. That was how I came the first time, biting the sleeve of my coat so I wouldn’t howl, squeezing his cock in my fist while spasms shook me. He didn’t stop moving his fingers until I was out of breath.

From his broken breathing I knew he was close. I hurried him with my hand, faster, twisting my wrist over the tip the way I’d been taught years ago, and begged in his ear to finish like that, against my skin, that I wanted to feel him come over me. He half stood up; I kept pumping him with both hands now, and a few seconds later he tensed all over and let out a rough groan. The first spurts of semen splashed onto my belly, warm, thick; the rest dripped between my fingers. I stayed still, feeling him tremble, squeezing him until the last drop, until his breathing went back to normal.

I wiped myself with a paper tissue. I closed my coat. I fixed my mask. Two stops later I got off at the terminal and walked to work with my legs still weak and my panties stuck to my cunt, repeating to myself that this could not happen again.

***

It happened again the next day.

That time I was the one who changed the rules. When he made his usual pass, I nodded toward the last car, the bike car, always deserted at that hour. He followed me without making it obvious, first him, then me, like two accomplices in a bad movie.

As soon as the doors closed I opened his pants again. But that morning I didn’t want to use only my hands. I knelt on the dirty floor of the car, not giving a damn about anything, pulled down his pants and boxers to mid-thigh, and grabbed his cock with both hands before taking it into my mouth. I sucked him all the way, deep down, until the tip hit the back of my throat and my eyes watered. He held onto the bike rail, threw his head back, and let out a sudden breath.

—Fuck me —he muttered—, like that, like that.

I did as he said. I started sucking him hard, taking him in and out, sucking strongly on the way out, letting a strand of saliva hang from my chin. I ran my tongue over the whole length, licked his balls one by one, took them into my mouth while I kept stroking him with my hand. Then I went back to the tip, wrapped it with my lips, and let him fill my mouth until my jaw started to ache.

While I had him like that, I slipped my hand inside my pants and touched my clit with two fingers, circling, pressing, aroused in a way I hadn’t felt in months. The confinement had dried me out completely, and suddenly there I was, kneeling on a train, choking on a stranger’s cock in uniform, touching my own dripping cunt, feeling more alive and more like a whore than I had all year. He stroked my hair, grabbed me by the nape, and set the rhythm firmly, murmuring my name like it was a dirty secret.

—Look at me —he asked—. Look at me when you suck it.

I lifted my eyes without taking him out of my mouth, my head still moving on his cock, and he let out a moan that escaped from his chest. He loved seeing me like that, humiliated on my knees, mouth full, looking up at him like a bitch in heat.

The car smelled of metal and damp, and every so often the train would brake at a ghost station. In those seconds of stillness I would stop too, holding my breath with his cock still in my mouth, alert to any sound on the platform. That constant threat that someone might get on and see us —an old woman, a cop, anyone— was, I confess, half the pleasure. I had never before dared do anything like that. I had never imagined I’d be capable of kneeling on a filthy floor to suck off a stranger in uniform.

We were almost at the end of the line, so I hurried him with my mouth, moving my head faster, sucking harder. I felt him swell on my tongue a second before.

—I’m coming —he panted—, where…?

—Inside —I answered with my mouth still full, and squeezed his ass cheeks to press him closer to me.

He finished with a long shudder, gripping the rail hard so he wouldn’t lose his balance with the train’s sway, unloading shot after shot into my mouth. I swallowed everything, never letting go, sucking the tip until the last drop, until he pulled away because he couldn’t stand the tickling anymore. I stood up, wiped the corner of my mouth with the back of my hand, and smiled at him.

—Tomorrow —he told me, still breathless.

—Tomorrow —I answered.

We reached our destination, I got off, and went to work without even saying goodbye, with his taste still on my tongue. That was part of the game: outside the car, we didn’t know each other.

***

On the third day he dared to ask for what we’d both been circling around.

—I want to fuck you —he said, just like that, and there was no need to explain anything else.

I wanted it too. So much that that morning I did something that wasn’t right: I called the restaurant and said I had symptoms, that my throat hurt, that it was better if I stayed isolated just in case. I lied with a ease that later made me feel a little guilty. But only a little.

We got off one stop before the terminal, on a lost platform where there wasn’t a soul. We walked to the station bathroom, those old bathrooms with faded tiles that in another era would have been disgusting and at that moment seemed like the hottest place in the world to me.

He locked the door. We kissed against the cold wall, no hurry for the first time, knowing that this time we had time. He took off my coat, my shirt, my bra, going lower until he had me leaning against the sink. I fumbled with his belt from the anxiety and yanked his pants down to his knees in one motion.

He knelt me first. He pulled down my pants and panties, turned me around against the sink, and crouched behind me. I felt his tongue there, between my ass cheeks, going from my asshole to my clit in one long pass, and my knees went weak. I had to hold onto the sink with both hands. He ate my cunt like that, from behind, his face buried between my ass cheeks, sucking my lips, shoving his tongue in deep, while I stared at our blurry reflection in the steamed-up mirror and panted like crazy. He made me come with his mouth before even touching me with his cock; I came pouring over his tongue, trembling in his face, my forehead pressed to the freezing tile.

When he stood me up and turned me around, my legs were still shaking. He sat me on the edge of the sink, spread my legs, and stood between them. He grabbed himself and ran his cock all over the slit of my cunt, up and down, rubbing the tip against my clit, soaking himself, teasing me.

—Put it in already —I begged him, and dug my nails into his back.

He slid it in all at once, all the way, and we both moaned at the same time. He filled me so much I felt a sweet stab in my lower belly. He stayed still for a second, inside me, looking me in the eyes with a crooked smile, enjoying how tightly my cunt was clenching around him. Then he started moving. Slow at first, long strokes, pulling almost all the way out and driving back in until his balls. I clung to his neck and bit his shoulder so I wouldn’t scream.

—Harder —I told him—. Fuck me hard.

And he fucked me hard. He drove into me against the sink until the mirror shook, until sharp little moans escaped me and bounced off the tiles. The sound of skin against skin filled the bathroom; each of his thrusts sounded wet, dirty, delicious. He got me out of there in an instant, turned me around again, bent me over the sink with one hand on the back of my neck, and fucked me from behind once more, gripping my hips with both hands. From that angle he got even deeper. I looked at myself in the mirror and he looked at me, and at some point I stopped thinking about the virus, about work, about confinement and everything that had been choking me for months. All that existed was that cock driving into me against the marble and the echo of our moans in the tiles.

I felt myself about to come again and warned him. He stretched one hand around front to touch my clit while he kept thrusting, and that finished blowing my mind. I came, screaming at him not to stop, squeezing his cock with my cunt in spasms that tore a roar out of him. He finished a few seconds later, burying it to the hilt, coming inside in long waves that I felt one by one, while he squeezed my hips with his fingers hard enough to leave marks.

We stayed like that for a while, bent over the sink, panting, feeling his semen start to drip down the inside of my thigh when he finally pulled out. Then I got dressed as best I could, fixed my hair in front of the dirty mirror, wiped myself between the legs with paper, and left first. He stayed sitting on the toilet lid, still smiling, with his uniform shirt half-buttoned and his wet cock hanging down.

That afternoon I didn’t go to work. I was “sick,” after all. I stayed home, in bed, touching myself while thinking of him, more than I would have liked to admit.

***

It went on for a couple more weeks. Not every day, because I made sure not to raise suspicions at work, but enough for that empty train to become the only thing that mattered in my routine. Sometimes it was just a stolen kiss and nothing more. Other times it was a quick handjob between two stations, or a blowjob hanging from the rail, or fucking standing up in the bathroom at the end of the line with just enough time before the next shift arrived. We learned to read each other with a gesture, to know from a single look whether that morning was for desire or just exhaustion.

We never exchanged phone numbers. I never knew where he lived or whether anyone was waiting for him. It didn’t matter. What we had existed only inside those cars, between station and station, and outside that we were two masked strangers who owed each other nothing.

Until one day Damián wasn’t there.

There had been a shift change. The new guard was a young guy, one of those who look at you with too much confidence and not much charm. He eyed me too, tried the same little look game. I gave him the coldest indifference I could. It wasn’t him. It wasn’t going to be him.

Little by little the city started to wake up. People returned to the train, the cars filled up again, and that silence break in which everything had been possible closed without anyone announcing it. Sometimes, on a packed car, the idea of doing it again would come to mind, of looking for that adrenaline surrounded by strangers. I never dared.

Not yet, at least. But that’s another confession, and I’m not ready to tell it yet.